The Tears That We Never Thought We'd Cry
by sctwilightvampwolfgal
Summary: Arthur hadn't really realized what they'd done, until later, until it was too late to change things, and somehow, the impenetrable breaks when no one knew that they could. *Nyo!America, and Nyo!Canada.* *Deanon fill to the Hetalia Kink Meme/Song fic to Lucy by Skillet.* *Warning for mentions of Abortion.*


It's dead quiet as Arthur walks slowly across the cemetary, noticing the names and the dates, as if it were all second nature to him, as if he'd been here before. He doesn't say a word, doesn't even attempt to greet the elderly couple by the tomb of their son. It's like a knife to the throat to stop now, just as it is, if he'd invited Amelia to walk through the cemetary and to the grave today.

Arthur pauses, feels the wind and glances down at the grave that holds leaves, recently cut grass, and other grime. It had only been six months, and it had seemed different than when they'd agreed to buy a gravestone, more out of courtesy's sake than anything at the time. Amelia had felt foggy and different, but hadn't felt anything then. He kneels by the grave, not minding the wet of the mud that clogs everything up in its terror.

He wipes the remainder of the leaves, the grass tips, the muck that he can wipe off, and he stares at the grave as if pretty blue eyes were staring up at him past it. "Hey." He's quiet, worried that the elderly couple could hear him as he sits here, unsure of whether it's okay to be here. Surely, that couple that he saw over there had more right to walk into this cemetary and visit someone that died too young, then he did.

"So, y-your Mom and I..." He cuts off; Amelia has a mother never really sank in, just as father was a numbing word when Arthur paused to consider it, yet had seemed to fit together nicely, like a long forgotten puzzle piece finally put together. Arthur feels sick as he lets those images flood his mind; Amelia holding a baby girl in her hands, carefully peeking into blue eyes that match her own, voice soft as a bell freshly rung. The thing is, the image comes too naturally, as if it had already happened, as if it was happening.

"S-So," He stutters, "Amelia and I," It's safer, feels less deadly, though almost less true, "We've been talking about marriage, you know... When we can look at each other." He took a deep breath.

"It only seems right, after everything. But, she doesn't want my last name, and I don't want hers, and we don't, we don't want a wedding." It hurts like a dagger, but they couldn't stomach the white of purity, when they were so impure, and they couldn't handle the innocence that a wedding entailed. They were too fiercely independent and fought all the time now, that it seemed wrong to submit, but yet they felt that they should.

"You know, I never forgot you." That feels like a lie, so he amends it, "When I realized what we'd done, I fell in love with you." It hurts to admit, but tragedy and violence often bring about the most sentimental feelings, ones that are soft though chained and tethered down, afraid to be felt.

It just hadn't felt like violence then, and tragedy was a hard word to associate it with, at the time. It was only when Amelia broke, and she never cried infront of him, hated it, that it sunk in.

* * *

Arthur came home; the only sound seemed to be the click of his boots, as he entered the house. No biscuits and gravy or other weird American food was being cooked on the stovetop or in the oven, no pretty, little flowers signifying that Amelia felt romantic today, no dreadful soap opera playing or the sounds of Amelia snoring.

Instead, a sound that was almost soft and yet as he walked further in was heard, a sound that he couldn't place, because in all of the years that they'd lived together, she'd never made this sound, not even when she was pregnant. Then, he'd been greeted by devastating shouting and worry and fear; today, there was no anger.

Arthur walked towards the unknown sound, dropping his briefcase down by the door, not bothering with even attempting to put it away right now. Something was amiss, felt more by the pit in his stomach that he hadn't even realized existed except for when several months earlier, he'd came home to find Amelia holding a pregnancy test, angry and bitter, hot tears falling down her cheeks, but not sad ones. That day, he didn't have long to dwell on this feeling. Today, Amelia was nowhere in sight.

He walked past the living room, wondering if she was in the bathroom. She wasn't coaching the baseball team today, nor was Maddie scheduled to visit, who almost always had a good word to say about everybody. It was Amelia's day off, and really, Arthur usually came home to something pleasant, not the minefield that he felt that he was walking into. Amelia, when angry, always burst from their room as if waiting for him to come home, always eager to shout and shout and shout, until either she and Arthur had a terrible spat, and he stayed somewhere else for the night or until he relented.

"Amelia?" His voice was soft, cautious, unsure, and he left the living room, and did not find her in the bathroom. That same noise that rose and fell almost like breaths kept him searching. She was not in the kitchen, not burnt or cut by preparing dinner. She was not in any of the places that he'd expected her to be in. Instead, she was sitting in their spare bedroom. Amelia's back was to him; paint sat in a bucket not far from her: pretty pink, like the color of a nursery. The plush looking bed was carefully made up in sheets, rather than bare as they normally left it, unless someone was staying the night.

Arthur could think of no guests that they'd have, and that noise still persisted, until Amelia finally turned around, and water fell from her eyes like raindrops. She was crying. Had something happened when she'd stayed home today? She never let anyone break her; she was always stronger than almost anyone, whether it was by physical strength or her own tendency to come up with quick solutions that did not always work to solve problems.

"A-Arthur?" She hiccuped, and he couldn't figure out what to do when the strongest woman that he knew was sitting on the floor, acting like someone had just ripped her heart out of her chest and tore it to pieces infront of her.

"What happened?" He still couldn't bear to step any closer; it seemed impossible that this could be anything but a nightmare.

"I happened." It was quiet, and Arthur wasn't sure that he'd heard those two words correctly, as Amelia curled in on herself, and he realized that maybe he should have entered the room and hugged her. He wasn't a huggy person, but it didn't seem right for her to be sitting there hugging herself.

"You happened?" Arthur crept in, as if afraid to startle his girlfriend, and knelt down by her side, just enough infront of her to be there. She didn't reach out for him, didn't seem to want to.

"Y-You remember?" Amelia stammered, "It's nothing. You wouldn't." Amelia turned away, looking at the paint before standing up, wiping any stray tears away and reaching for a paint brush.

"You can't paint. There are bed sheets on the bed." They were their spare sheets, and they almost never touched this bed.

"Arthur." Amelia dropped the paintbrush back into the paint, ignoring the ensuing splatter and sitting back down. She didn't say anything else, but Arthur took her into his arms finally, anyway. Not sure why she wanted to paint their spare bedroom that was never painted, and not entirely sure why she was crying over it.

* * *

"Your mother never cries." Arthur wondered if that was the wrong thing to say or too much at all, "Or never infront of me. She likes to be strong, and I never knew her to have any fears." He let his voice pick up volume, forgetting the elderly couple that stayed next to a grave further back.

"She's always been strong, even when sad. Even, when-when she cried that day, she was strong." Arthur paused. "It was easier that way for us. I'm no good at comforting people, and she hates showing weakness. We just worked for a really long time."  
It hurts too much to stay here, so he gets up, knowing that Amelia might have dinner made, that things might be normal, but not normal back at the house, that gravestones mean nothing if you don't visit them or rather, if you don't love the person underneath the rock. Oddly, enough, no body lay in a casket, no body lay beneath the stone.

* * *

Arthur has no idea why he comes back, but he's relieved that the graveyard is empty, that he's alone, with a dozen, half-forgotten roses that he only sometimes realizes that he's holding. It's quiet and still so damp, as he moves across the grass that always seems alive and so fresh. It's hard to ignore the way that his heart twists in his chest. He remembers Amelia's words just earlier, "If you don't mean it, why do you bother?"

It stung. He'd told her that he'd went to the cemetary a couple weeks ago, and he remembers how cold and stale he'd been when they'd made their decision. So, he walked to the stone, realizing that someone must have visited her lately. It seemed too _loved _to be ignored, like most stones.

Arthur tucked the roses underneath the scrambled little bit of information left on the stone: death by abortion, Jones-Kirkland. It's weird, and he has no idea why he let Amelia's mom talk them into including that much. He would have left it Jones-Kirkland, with maybe a first name tucked in first: Lucy, for Amelia's grandmother.

It seemed sterile, bitter, to think back to that conversation as he laid all of the roses carefully over the grave, to apologize and express love that never came on as strong or as forgiving as he half-wished it would. It wasn't enough; he knew that much.

* * *

"What should we do with it?" Amelia had asked, eyes lifeless as she looked out the window rather than at him. Arthur wasn't sure if she was talking about the pregnancy or the fetus within her.

"Terminate it." It comes out, with no hesitation. They weren't married, and Arthur and Amelia had both agreed that they couldn't have a kid, that's why they'd been diligently using birth control, until it failed them.

"O-Okay," Amelia pauses, "I-It's not a baby yet, right? Just an embryo or a fetus, or-or a cluster of cells, right? It will be just like a miscarriage, just a controlled one." Amelia takes a deep breath, and Arthur can see that she believes what she says, but that little bit of hesitation drags in both of their stomachs as it leaves her lips.

"Yeah, that's what everyone says." He doesn't think that it's acid or poisonous as it leaves his throat, and neither does Amelia as she hops down off her perch.

"It's just going to be different than a normal surgery." She breathes, "But not all that different, and it's not a baby yet, and therefore, it will be okay. Everything will go back to normal." Amelia nods, and though she rambles when she's nervous. Arthur thinks that she'll be okay, that this will fix things, and besides that, Amelia doesn't cry. She doesn't cry at all.

He's positive that it's just another surgery, and that they should have caught it sooner, but it will be okay. It isn't okay, and it's not just a surgery, but he doesn't think like that, even when she tells him that she'll go alone, so he can still work, and then everything will be normal again, like it always was.

* * *

"You know, Amelia's put up a calendar, that says the day that you would have been born on it. She did the maths, and not only that, she penciled in the day that you died." Arthur feels himself ramble, but he can't be, he just can't be, and though he knows he's grieving, he can't bear to let himself ramble anymore.

"Goodbye." He doesn't apologize; the words always get stuck in his throat anyway.

* * *

The room is pink, the next time that he comes home. Amelia is kneeling among the wet paint and watching the occasional drip of the paint. "Did you see her?"  
"Her grave, you mean, yeah." Arthur stammers as he looks at his not quite fiancee.

"Yeah, her grave." She takes a deep breath and stands, just to look at him, to really look as if she sees past the facade of strength that he works so hard to build up.

"You ruined me, Arthur." Amelia stares at him, "I can't be with anyone else, and I can't stand looking at you. She'd have your eyes, green and bright, and I'd love her, kind of like you." She pauses, and he wonders if she'd been wearing a mask to deal with the pain too.

He doesn't know what to say to that, but he knows that she's guilty too, yet the words hurt too much to bring up.

"Maybe it isn't your fault." Amelia talks outloud, letting her thoughts punctuate the air with sound. "It's not that it's you, but I went in, went in alone, and they-they." She pauses, and Arthur wonders just when that it sank in for her, because she hadn't cared, until months later, and hadn't told him how she started thinking of it has more than a procedure.

"Do you want to visit the grave next time with me?" He can't imagine her there, can't picture Amelia kneeling among the headstones to talk to the daughter that they'd never came to know.

"No, I couldn't." That's all that she says, before she disappears into the kitchen to work on dinner. The only other response comes about fifteen minutes later.

"Maddie's coming over."

Arthur only murmurs some sound from the back of his throat, to let her know that he understands.

Amelia just nods and cooks, as if that's all that it takes to understand, "Set the table for us." There's no please, or thank you, or may you. The command's simple in it's brevity, and he knows that she won't add anything else. She can't work up the energy to find a nicer way of saying things. It's hard to find polite words, when there's a storm brewing beneath the surface that she can't quite speak of.

* * *

"So who delivered her roses?" Maddie says, as she leans against the table, quiet other than that simple and direct question, probably expecting Amelia to pipe up.

"I did." Arthur answers, "The last time that I visited her." He knows that he could use her name, but it still hurts sometimes to say it, feels like though others will understand, that they won't know who she is.

"Oh," Maddie murmurs, "Have you seen her much lately?" Normally, Maddie is less direct than her sister, doesn't like to rip the bandaids off, and yet today, it just boils and brims from her.

"No." Arthur answers flatly; it's too much effort to explain it outright.

"He's been twice." Amelia answers, slamming down the pot in the middle of the table, "Both close together, so it probably doesn't even count." There are tears that Arthur knows are there just by some kind of premonition, not out of hearing them in her voice or even seeing them. He doesn't know how he knows, really.

"Sorry." Maddie goes quiet, and Arthur wonders how much she thinks of it, how long that she'd been fighting off the urge to say something about all of this.

"It's okay." And, Amelia smiles at her little sister like it's okay, and Arthur knows that somehow, it's not, and it has never been.

* * *

The light's on in their bedroom. Arthur hadn't slept there, since the day after he'd found Amelia crying in the spare bedroom, but that insistent, sniffling noise is back, and he almost wishes that he could hit Maddie for bringing up the topic that they rarely discussed outright, only in hints, and spurts of anger and quiet and just unbearable grief that neither had words for.

His whole body's tense like a spring, and his legs seemed to hurt as he steps towards their bedroom door, before gently pushing it open. Amelia's sitting on their made bed, that she must have starting making now, that Arthur had stopped making it, stopped entering their room, other than when he moved a bunch of his clothes out the one day, not caring whether anything matched at all. His clean laundry was hidden in the living room, in case they had guests who would wonder or somehow know why they are out there.

Amelia's face is in her hands, and her shoulders shake with unrestrained sobs, and Arthur isn't sure what to do other than step closer.

He sits on the bed, though Amelia tries to shove him off of it, and he reaches out for her arms to gently pull them from her face and envelop her in a hug that only doesn't feel awkward because his body is wired with so much negative emotion that shame doesn't even scratch the surface.

"Get out! Get Out! Get Out!" Amelia shouts, "You are not my husband! She's not here!" Amelia breaks, finally, lets go of the tension more than before he'd been in here, as she collapses against his arms and sobs and sobs and _sobs. _And, Arthur doesn't know what to do than hold her. He pictures Lucy, learning to walk, to crawl, to say Mama and Papa, and to be half-American, half-British, how she'd talk funny for years, but that it would be okay, because her house was special and Arthur and Amelia loved her so much.

Her room was pretty pink, and her bed was too big for her, but it was okay, because she'd prefer to stay in Mommy and Daddy's bed, and Arthur's crying. Crying into Amelia's shoulders, unsure of where he's at anymore, because everything seems to be an echo of something else, something far different, despite the shadows on the walls that seem to lurk.  
What if little Lucy's had a bad dream? And, Mommy has to comfort her, but she still wants Daddy to say something? Arthur cracks, at the images that his imagination throws on him ruthlessly. Little blond hair, a bit wavy like her mother's, though Arthur's shade, and her eyes are bright blue and full of the morning sky, and tears are just as wrong in them as they are in Amelia's eyes.

Arthur doesn't cry, like Amelia doesn't cry, but then again, he's not sure what they are doing then. His arms hold her tight, like he can't hold Lucy, and Amelia's always been just right in his arms in a very imperfect way, and somehow he can picture what a healthy delivery can be, and finally, Amelia whispers to him, behind choked sobs.

"We would have had two kids." She hiccups past the lump that's in her throat and yet in Arthur's too, "I had a miscarriage a few months later, and I, I just want to be happy." Amelia tucks her head further against his shoulder, almost trying to burrow against it.

"We, We might not have kids." It's quiet, but fearful, and Arthur squeezes her tighter.

"We don't deserve them." Amelia cries, "But, I want them. I want them, now."

Arthur just holds her, even as he pictures two kids crawling up into bed with them to hold them, because somehow kids feel stronger than Arthur thinks either of them are.

* * *

He throws himself into work the next day, because personal life is too hard to think about, though Amelia calls off of work. Arthur thinks that coping was never meant as a two-way project, as he distracts himself, to keep from crying. He feels helpless and powerless, and that evening he grabs the car and Amelia and goes to the place that he feels at home and yet makes him even more broken, more vulnerable.

They dodge a six year old's funeral, seeing crying parents, a crying older brother, and toddlers crowded around. It hurts to look at, so Arthur pretends that they don't exist, and he and Amelia kneel before Lucy's grave. The red roses have wilted, and Arthur wants to throw them, angry that they aren't too old, but are dead, like their little girl.

Amelia squeezes his hand, and this is the first time that they really feel together in so long. It's closer than when they cried together, mourning their losses, the mistakes that they'd instigated through much help.

"H-Happy Birthday." The words take Arthur by surprise, and Amelia squeezes his hand again.

"Happy Birthday." He's always trusted her, and so he repeats it in faith.

"She's a year old today." Amelia whispers in his ear as she shows him the date on her phone: April Third. She would have been born on April Third, and Arthur isn't sure why he leans over and kisses the headstone or why, he turns from that and kisses his girlfriend.

Somehow, as she cries into him, and he holds her, still holding hands beneath the almost-hug of a kiss, he knows that this is the closest that they've come to being a family, since they'd decided more than a year ago, that they couldn't be a family, so he fumbles after the kiss, mind made up, in a surprising amount of spontaneity.

"Will you marry me, Amelia?" It comes out rushed and breathless, and he's crying, and proposals never belonged in cemetaries, but it seems as if the words were finally pulled from him.

"Y-Yes." And, it's tear filled, and there's no exuberent joy, just relief and heartache and pain, as they sit infront of their daughter's grave, and wonder if really, they could put on the 'show' of a wedding and feign happiness, but most of all, wondering if they'll ever heal as guilt fills their veins and keeps them in place, in front of Lucy, knowing that she probably wants them married, if she's ever forgiven them, if she's realized what they'd done to her, how they'd snuffed out her life before it really began.

Amelia leans against them, and Arthur hopes that it's raining as they huddle close together, and cry, because rain hides the tears, drowns the pain, before it's become visible, and today, it hurts too much to leave Lucy, again and again and again, like they did the first time.

Arthur can't imagine a happier, brighter future, not when the mud beneath them and the hardness of stone and the guilt that makes them feel sick is their reality, but they'd get married and try to pick up the pieces, and Arthur knows that if Amelia gets pregnant again, he'll cry when she gives birth, knowing that that child would never, ever be their first, and that the guilt will be ever present that day.

Today, the sun does not even seem to shine, and they hold each other, letting themselves be overcome with emotion as the world is still bleak, with two people forced close by tragedy, that once thought that they'd been close before. Arthur dips his head, back against Amelia and lets himself cry with her, imagining that Lucy's holding his arm or better yet, in both of their arms, and crying, crying, crying with them, little sobs wracking her body, in shared grief. Arthur couldn't even speak if he'd had to.


End file.
